


enmity gauged

by Possette



Series: Possette's SongFics [1]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Caretakers Illya and Gaby, Caring Gaby, Fever, Frustrated Gaby, Gaby is The Mastermind Behind Illyeon/Napollya, Honest to god idk why I made this, Hurt Napoleon Solo, Hurt/Comfort, I like hurting Napoleon okay, Illya gets threatened with Russian Roulette by Gaby, M/M, Napoleon Has Nightmares, Napoleon Solo Whump, Napoleon's parents are different here for the sake of the plot, Not Beta Read, Oblivious Illya, Oblivious Napoleon, Past Child Abuse, Supportive Gaby, bad memories, sick napoleon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-13 21:00:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29284953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Possette/pseuds/Possette
Summary: Illya accidentally tears open a scar. Gaby threatens him with a game of Russian Roulette and a sniper rifle. Illya pries the wound even wider and pours disinfectant. Napoleon breaks.---Title taken from Pearl Jam's "Rearviewmirror" lyrics.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin & Gaby Teller, Illya Kuryakin & Napoleon Solo, Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo
Series: Possette's SongFics [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2150625
Comments: 2
Kudos: 18





	1. 0

**Author's Note:**

> _Look_ , I know this song was published during the 90's and not the 60's and that the movie didn't even take place on 1993, but hey. The lyrics are akin to Napoleon's past and current situations right now. So bear with me.

A loud commotion is heard and Gaby whips her head in time to witness Napoleon himself standing up from the muddy terrace to awkwardly pat the muck off the seat of his slacks. She was about to reprimand the American for goofing off with Illya when her breath got caught in her throat. The expression on Napoleon's face is what catches her off guard. He looked... embarrassed? Pained? Maybe both? The petite girl does not know. All she knows is that he is not talking nor smiling, the acts that he would usually crack open on his face whenever he succeeded in making Illya snap in anger.

Napoleon offered a smile to the Russian and German mechanic. The smile didn't reach his eyes though. That was a red flag for Gaby.

He heads into the safe house that they were currently hiding in, most likely to change into a new pair of pants. Returning back to the extraction point where they were waiting for the chopper to come pick them up, he attains his focus onto the droplets of rain that had started to spray gently after his return. Illya casts an annoyed look at Napoleon before he leans back on Gaby's suitcase that he had volunteered to hold on for the moment. Strong gusts of repetitive winds blew around them and Gaby looks up at the sky through her tinted sunglasses, a black chopper preparing for landing. She advances for the flying vehicle's landing point and Illya follows, Napoleon lagging a bit behind, as if he hadn't noticed the chopper fly over. They boarded without a problem and the pilot brings the helicopter up into the air. The rest of the flight goes smoothly and wordlessly.

[...]

Illya grumbles something about a stiff neck as he walks off the chopper with Napoleon walking mindlessly behind him and Gaby striding agitatedly ahead the Russian. The mechanic pauses a bit and makes a U-turn for the American, whispering something to an agent, the agent nodding and grabbing Napoleon's luggage to lead him to his suite in UNCLE's dormitories. Now it's just Illya and Gaby. The brunette lets out an oddly loud click of her tongue and directs a cold stare towards Illya who in turn raises his eyebrows at her with a narrow squint of his eyes.

"What do you want?"

He grumbles and sighs when his partner refuses to offer a verbal response. Illya replies by leading her into his office in UNCLE headquarters, locking the doors and bringing the blinds on his windows down. They both take a seat across the coffee table. It was silent for a moment until Gaby cleared her throat. Illya looks at her. Gaby looks at him back.

"This is about Napoleon."

"No."

Gaby gives Illya the stink eye and she unfolds her legs to lean forward, inching a bit closer towards Illya's personal space. The aura she's giving off is menacing, and it's obvious that she does not intend to make this conversation subtle.

"What did you do to him?"

She asks softly, which would not be the case if it weren't for her body language. Illya merely scoffs, as if he were offended by the question.

"I did nothing to him. It was _he_ who did something to me. He made a cheeky remark about my shoes, saying that they did not match my eyes."

It was Gaby's turn to scoff.

"Does everything Napoleon remark about anger you so much? So much to the point that you would act like a child to push him down to the disgusting ground in public?"

"He is grown man, he can handle a bit of pushing. That flaunting mouth of his saves his stupid pride anyway."

"You're missing the point here Kuryakin!"

"I have to report to Mr. Waverly about the mission, excuse me."

Illya stands up with an unbothered expression on his face and arranges a few stray papers on his desk as he prepares his leave. He was halfway through the door when he heard the muffled scraping of wooden chair legs on the expensive velvet carpet. Gaby's frustrated footsteps thundered to his direction and he could hear her laboured breathing, something she would only do when matters were serious. Illya spares Gaby a turn of his head to glance at her. She was standing a meter away from him, looking all too scary for being in a colourful choice of a minimalist floral blouse and khaki coloured women slacks.

"Napoleon trusts you, you Russian blockhead." 

The childish insult made Illya roll his eyes. He lets his grip on the door knob go and he faces Gaby.

"Trusting or not, I do not care. That will not make think of him as a ladies' man who happens to be a too proud bastard any less."

"He held little to no resistance when you pushed him. He never, I repeat, _never_ lets anyone do that. Napoleon made no comment when he stood up. Did you not pay attention his body language or face? He was clearly embarrassed, or maybe that's what I saw,"

Illya just listened politely, although not interested in the topic of Napoleon.

"He was abused as a child, Illya. His father-"

Gaby's breaths were accompanied by her saliva gurgling at the base of her throat. She chokes not long after.

"He was treated like a dirty dog, pushed and thrown around by his bastard father. He was barely fed, he stole for a living, he joined the army at sixteen years of age, he was sentenced 15 years for stealing and selling arts and antiquities. He did not have a good childhood. I know you didn't either, but you just reopened an old scar that he had tried to keep sealed up for years."

This information of course was not new, but it definitely did not sound good. Sure Illya's own father was not a good man, deeming his worth by embezzling money, but he had never abused him. He had beatings, lecturing, but he had earned them for a reason. Napoleon however, had been badly mistreated for nothing. Illya felt something twist in his guts.

Guilt? Remorse? It did not feel good. Gaby must have sensed this, as she approached even more closer. Her hand flew out before Illya could react, and a backhand slap slashes across the Russian's face. The slap did not seem to be an offending one though, it was demonstrated in a manner to bring Illya back to his senses. Gaby looks at him. He looks at her back.

"I want you to go make it up to him, any way of doing so can be done,as long as you are not going to hurt him anymore."

He nods and reluctantly exits the room, bounding for the dormitory's suites. Gaby stays behind as she makes herself a mug of coffee with Illya's coffee machine. The clouds begin to huddle even more. The winds blew into Napoleon's window. Napoleon's body was wracked with shivers and he draws the window hatch close before layering them with thick curtains.


	2. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will the Russian Blockhead apologise? Or will he retreat and hide like a coward? Go and read.

Illya was conflicted. He was unsure of his route, if he was to continue his walk towards Napoleon's suite, or if he was to retreat and hide away from both of his partners in his own suite. No, option number two would make him look like a coward who's too scared of apologising to his fellow agent. Although he gave himself a reasoning, he still could not find the courage to press the button to the lift. He could take the stairs and he could think over the things that Gaby had said said to him thirty minutes earlier. If only that little chop shop girl could accompany him to Napoleon's room then he wouldn't have to angrily mourn over the stiffness his right leg was beginning to contain. His earpiece suddenly buzzed and he opened his eyes with a jolt when he hears Gaby on the end of the line.

_"Why are you just standing there?"_

Illya was taken aback with the abrupt question. Was Gaby following him?

_"At your eight o'clock, third floor."_

The Russian turns his head to the indicated direction, and there indeed, he sees the aforementioned girl in front of a glass wall window, clad in her bathrobe and hair towel with a coffee mug in hand. She looked tiny, but he did not doubt she was harmful, even with this large of a distance. Her figure retreated from the glass window, and she returned with a sniper rifle in hand. This startled Illya. What on earth was she doing?

"What are you doing? You shouldn't be in possession of such weapon in your room."

_"Let's play a little game of Russian Roulette, Illya."_

If that wasn't sneer and threat in Teller's voice, then he didn't know what it was. The way she had said "Russian" almost sounded like he was a rival in this so called game that held the name of his nationality; she was the only girl Illya found threatening enough to break his neck with those driver's hands of hers. When Gaby slid a fully-loaded magazine onto its respective area, it was as if he could hear the safety clip click. The chop shop girl was definitely not willing to let Illya waste thirty more minutes idling in the dorm halls.

"It won't be roulette if the magazine's full."

_"Alright Illya, you have one second."_

"One second is not enough-" A bullet whistled through glass and past Illya's shoulder. She wanted to kill him for fuck's sake.

"Teller! What the hell-" Another bullet landed an inch away from the Russian's left foot, the lead material penetrating itself into the shine of the now-cracked flooring.

 _"You're smarter and faster than that, Kuryakin. Now get your petty ass into that elevator and up to the last floor of that building. Or else,"_ Gaby's voice drops lower than any other girls' voice Illya's ever heard, and it wracks an involuntary shudder through his massive body. Jesus Christ, Illya wonders how Napoleon had managed to get this mad lady to hug him during their escape in Berlin.

"Alright! I'm getting into the elevator, put the gun away."

_"I am not putting my gun away until I see you at the top floor, Kuryakin."_

Huffing in annoyed protest, the man roughly presses fingers into the elevator button and curses at the Gods to get this over with. Illya glances behind his shoulder once or twice before the metal doors open. The metal box doesn't seem inviting, but he gets into it nevertheless. It's better to be trapped in the confinements of these walls rather than to be shot in the head by some German mechanic over a small ridiculous disagreement. Illya lets his index finger rest against the cool feel of the floor buttons before reluctantly adding pressure on it. He was going for the topmost floor, the seventh. His earpiece clicks again and he braces himself for Gaby's threatening words that were to come, but he receives none of it. All he heard was a soft sigh, and a murmur soon followed after. Pressing on his device, he opens his voice channel.

"Teller?"

 _"Not 'ere.."_ The voice was masculine, nowhere near being Gaby's voice. It was blanketed with and masked with sleep, the husky tones making words slurred.

"Gaby Teller?" He tried again. This time, there was shuffling. Sheets. Bed sheets. The stranger starting muttering incoherence again.

 _"She's...with Mr. Waverly.."_ Solo? Was that Solo? Wait, how is he on the channel? He's supposed to be offline now that he's in his suite.

 _"I got one of the agents to hack through the channels and we came across a bug you put in Napoleon's pillow,"_ Gaby's monotone voice interrupts Illya's confused trance. _"We pieced a few complications together, but we managed to get your audio connected to Solo's earpiece and his audio on the bug to your own earpiece."_ What the actual fuck Teller. This was going to drive him insane.

"Just why."

_"Admit that I'm a genius, Illya."_

"A really revolting one at that."

_"Now I see why Napoleon loves getting you riled up, you resemble a child."_

"I am not a child, Teller." The line clicks once again, and he is redirected to the cowboy's gentle snores. Illya finds that he can no longer click back to Teller's channel. Mentally groaning (he didn't want to wake Solo up), he steps out of the elevator when he arrives at his requested floor. The walls up here were made of glass, giving them a spectacular view of their secluded headquarters. The clouds flocked together and thin sheets of rain poured lightly, slightly fogging the glass barriers with the temperature. Illya could still clearly see Gaby at the third floor of the second dormitory building. Her hands that had made blood shed and held multiple pistols looked so fragile holding a sniper gun that was almost the length of her height, and she was still aiming the damn thing at Illya, stance somewhat tilted to an angle that would be able to shoot him in the heart haphazardly. He groaned again and started walking towards the East part of the floor he was currently on. Plain white walls endlessly spiralled behind him as he continued for Solo's room. Just how much trouble was Gaby willing to go through in order for him to apologise to the cowboy?

[...]

The air in Napoleon's tightly-shut suite was still as thick trees standing in a dark forest. Napoleon felt damp as sweat trailed his temples, jaw, down his neck, and across his shuddering chest. Dark thoughts crawled freely behind the American's closed eyelids and his breathing was erratic like he was struggling to intake oxygen at an intense marathon race. Blankets seemed like an uncomfortable option, as the soft material was discarded at the foot of the king-sized bed.

_Whispers. Make them stop. They're murmuring an eerie tune, make them stop._

_Stop singing. Stop. What are they saying?_

"Stop."

_What is- that's blood. There's blood on the floor. Gallons of it. Whose-_

Napoleon cringes and writhes to the other end of the bed, dragging the sweat-stained sheets with his rigorous movements. His arms flings out and knocks a lamp off the bedside table, a resounding crash echoing off the beige walls in his suite. The commotions makes Napoleon flinch in his sleep but it's not enough to wake him up.

_It's his blood. It's tinging his skin, scarred skin. He's scared. Where is Gaby? **"Teller?"**_

_Who's looking for her? She's not here._

"Not 'ere.."

_**"Gaby Teller?"** He remembers. She's with Waverly. Somewhere away from Napoleon. From Napoleon and his shambled life._

_He wants her to be here with him. Please. Where's Illya?_

The temperature is getting hotter. It's too hot. His ears are pounding like drums.

_He's getting engulfed in darkness. Hands are groping him all over, unwelcome fingers caressing on spots where horrible souvenirs were left by his father._

_Painful burning sensations take over the soundless screams his desperate mouth lets out. He's choking. Water, rust, mud, rain, they're feeding on his lungs. It hurts. Let go. Father, let go._

A sharp cry slices and shatters through the silence. There's a shaking on his front door, and it bursts open.


	3. when solo's better

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea how vinyl record players work, so yeah.

There's a blanket strewn on the carpeted floor when Illya barges into the master bedroom and the cowboy is nowhere to be seen. However, there are blood-curdling gagging sounds in the bathroom, the direction where a stray shirt was leading to. The piece of abandoned clothing article was still warm in between Illya's fingertips, meaning it's been only a few minutes since it was abandoned. Another loud wretch echoes and slithers up his spine. He darts up and strides briskly to the pearl white door that would open to a bathroom. When he tries to turn the knob in his wide palm, it jams and refuses to budge. The sound of running tap water could be heard and there was subtle splashing which was followed by soft squelching and then splashing again. Illya backs up slightly when uncoordinated foot steps approach the door, which was then swung open by an exasperated Napoleon with bloodshot eyes. His natural curls look oddly sad today, and his skin seem a bit too pale for its usually tanned hue. Illya throws a glance at the mirror inside. There were soapy traces of toothpaste drawn in a form of a smiley face on the reflective surface.

"Solo," Illya starts quietly. His voice still makes Napoleon jump a bit, visible tremors wracking his fingers and hands. The American cranes over to look at Illya dead in the eye before quickly averting his line of sight somewhere else. He clears his throat and throws a smile at Illya's direction; the same smile that he had been using ever since that incident at the safe house.

"Solo." He tries again, hoping to at least get a verbal response out of the shorter man. Napoleon just walks over to the kitchen bar to busy himself by raiding the racks of wine bottles. His empty blue eyes rake over the labels on two different wine bottles while his languid fingers are fumbling on the necks of said bottles. Illya sighs in annoyance. Other than the tiredness the Russian was feeling, there was also concern and confusion. Why couldn't the man just speak up? His troubled demeanour was hanging obviously around him as he did not bother to blanket it. And the scream he just heard? It was more than enough to make the muscles under one's skin crawl out. Gaby would probably not let him off the hook, since suddenly barging into another fellow agent's suite definitely didn't result in a good aftermath, it somehow resulted to the situation becoming awkward and tense. 

Illya takes a tentative step towards Solo and settles a cold hand on his shoulder, immediately drawing it back when the American flinches away aggressively. This action broke an artery in Illya's heart. "Napoleon," He snaps his neck to look up at Illya from his place on the floor. The taller man crouches to eye level and slowly offers a hand to the fallen man as he softens his eyes to at least let Solo know he isn't an enemy. But he gets up without taking the offer, _damn that pride of his that he has to at lower by at least two tons_. 

"Tell me what's wrong." Napoleon shrugs and retreats to his bedroom while tripping over his own feet, muttering words that Illya could barely make out. Something about "just a headache, Peril" and "not your fault dear friend". Illya walks over to the side of the king-sized bed where Napoleon was rummaging through the drawers of his bedside table who pulled out a comb with the tip of his fingers. He then proceeds to rearrange his mop of hair as he hummed a tune unfamiliar to the blonde. Illya looked over the mattress to see where a black wire was leading to and his arched brows furrow tensely when he discovers an obnoxious mess of an irreparable lamp on the carpet floor. Billions of tiny glass shards gently reflected around the dim underside of the shadows. Just as he was about to reach out to investigate the damaged item better, Solo immediately shoves a Sherry glass into Illya's open palm. He almost dropped the fragile glassware in a daze. Instead of Sherry wine, there was whiskey, which was rather strange. From his experience with all the companionship of the American to the bar, he knows for a fact that the liquor expert would have never used a Sherry glass. Especially for some cheap whiskey. That was _extremely_ strange. It was impossible to mistake such a small glassware for a Glencairn.

Even so, he takes a subtle sip. 

Napoleon however, is lost in clouds of thoughts as he continued to swirl the liquor in the glass. Darkness overtakes the color in his irises and the small hairs on his nape prickle painfully. Reaching up to soothe the area of skin, he pulls back to see that a lot of sweat was crowding on the lines of his palms. Suddenly everything hits him like a sack of hard bricks, and the air that he had saved in his lungs vanished as if it was never there in the first place. He doesn't even notice that he's kneeling on the floor, or that he's gasping for dear air, or that Illya is throwing the expensive Sherry glass onto the floor to let it join the shattered lamp. All that he's aware, is that he's dying. There are hands coiled tightly around his throat, his trachea burns and rejects the air that Napoleon wishes to taste again, his hands can't be felt. 

Where are his hands? They're tied up with a belt. 

Why can't he see? Blood gurgles at the back of his mouth and sharp pain that resembles barbed wire coats his eyes.

How come can't sense his feet? A needle is stabbed into his bruised calf and a blazing sensation surges through his weak bloodstream.

He can't say anything. But why? A short metal rod scrapes across the roof of his mouth, its rusted body impaled into the soft, infected flesh of his tongue. His words come out in muddled cries and chokes as the thick blowing impact of heavy chains dominate his cracked ribs.

There they are again. The vomitous whispers are singing a horrid song, the song that his mother used to sing to him when she was still sane enough, enough to consider him a human and son. Solo missed his mother. Where was the mother he used to know before everything started lolling down the shit-ridden bog? Fuck, was he even still breathing?

_I want to be hugged, to be loved. Not to be treated like a punching bag. Father-_

_**"Can't keep ya fly shut now can ya? I can 'ear you's silly thoughts from 'ere you lil' shit."** A strong blast of a chubby fist connects with his side and a rib bone cracks. Blood explodes from his pale mouth and all over the fece-covered floor. Dreadly hues of purple, black and red bundles his frail small body from head to toe. Multiple signs of dislocated joints and bones poked out, making his build immensely sharp and skeletal. Malnutrition and dehydration showed on the boy's face and trails of dried blood from old cuts decorated his rotting skin._

_A woman sat limp on a worn couch nearby, having the same eyes as the boy who was being hung by the arms from the ceiling. A witless smile was rested upon her drunken, cracked lips._

_**I don't want to die yet, not now**. But he will, in this damned barn of theirs, where they slaughtered the remaining of their cows to sell their hide for more heroin. He'll die while hanging from the ceiling by his hands. He'll die miserably without being buried or without being given a decent funeral, they'll merely leave him on the floor and continue on like they never had a son. He'll die uselessly, as if he even had a purpose in this desolate world anyway. And he'll wander aimlessly once he's a ghost, unable to do anything. Do ghosts even exist? Maybe, if he just chanted a prayer. Perhaps he could escape by wriggling his tiny wrists off the tangled wraps of thin strings, and he'll run so far away, he won't turn back and he'll find a tree hole to cower in and savour the remaining of his life before he passes away and rot under the tree he'll be in._

_And he does escape. And he does run so far away that he got tired and crawled on his sprained knees. And he does find a hole under a mound of soil with a tree on top of that mound. But he doesn't pass away. So he cries silently, sobs shaking the entirety of his tiny body. The blood on his skin seem to work like acid as it ate away the feeling of his skin, his fingers, his bones, his life. He's being eaten up by his own blood._

[...]

Arms that don't belong to Napoleon wrap around the unconscious body, fingers locking together to keep his head from smashing against the floor. Illya curses loudly and attempts to shake the cowboy awake as he looks up and around, immediately lifting and dragging the body by the arms. Quick scuffling and grunts of struggling ensued the travel towards the bed. The springs of the mattress squeak slightly when Illya hauls his heavy partner onto it and he kneels almost just as fast as he acted upon the situation. Napoleon's breaths are short and shattering, sweat breaking out in waterfalls everywhere and the Russian has no idea what to do.

"Stupid cowboy, you cannot die yet you proud rat," He pauses to feel a faltering pulse on his neck. Then he decides to adjust the body properly and elevate Napoleon's feet with a bolster before whirling around to run to the kitchen and grab water. People who fainted need to be cooled down right? 

"Cold as an ice drink, like Everest." 

What is he supposed to do now? He could just sit and wait for Napoleon to wake up, but seeing him writhe in pain and tears did not meddle good with Illya's inexperience. Finally releasing a sigh, he grabs the telephone and dials the front desk, requesting for Gaby. The woman gets on the line faster than how he had dialled the combination of numbers. He hopes the chop shop girl wouldn't query as to why he didn't use his earpiece.

"What happened there? Did you two make-up and hug?" Illya scowls at the thought of such scenario occurring. He lets out another sigh and Gaby stops altogether, recognising the soft grunt in the background. "Is he alright?"

"No he is not alright, and no we did not _make-up nor hug_. He passed out and I have no idea on what I'm supposed to do."

A small pause goes over the line and the woman's stomach drops when she hears a louder grunt.

"He keeps saying _mother help me_ but I am no mother nor woman!"

"Are you suggesting I come over and coddle the Napoleon?"

"Coddle? More like calm him! He's on the verge of crying and I don't want any involvement of this."

"You caused this, so you coddle him."

"What- no! That is ridiculous!"

"Ridiculous or not, I still have to report to Waverly in your place. I will be there shortly. In the meantime, do your best to prevent him from getting a heart attack."

Then the line goes dead, leaving Illya with his cursing thoughts. He just sat there on the ottoman beside the bed with the black telephone dangling from his hand as he contemplated life once more. _If only he had not let his anger get the best of him and push Solo to the ground like an irked child, only then would he not be in a miserable position right now_. His gaze sweeps over the limp body on the bed and winces when he sees the barely noticeable scars on Solo's bare stomach, guilt devouring him whole. He remembers that one mission in Vietnam where Napoleon had gotten stabbed by a skewer stick in the abdomen by accident and it had taken a solid hour to pluck out the shaves of the stick from the drying wound. Illya wonders if it still hurt. Illya yelps as a fist collides with his knee. Was Solo even passed out or was he just trapped in a nightmare? A coma perhaps? Illya throws the absurd thoughts away and backs away while Napoleon thrashed, abruptly sitting up and coughing into his elbow. The man looks around in a panic and digs the heel of his palms deep into the sockets of his eyes, letting out guttural exhales accompanied by small sobs. Illya just stares.

But somehow, he finds that his body is moving by itself. The duvet crinkles around Illya as he awkwardly draws Napoleon into his lanky arms, breathing in and out of his nose loudly so that Solo might imitate his breathing pattern. And the man actually does. In a matter of minutes, the American is calmed down and is now staring at his pyjama-clad thighs where his hands where fidgeting. Stray tears lingered on his cheeks and the rim of his eyes are pinkish, irritated from the salty tears. Illya returns from ransacking the fridge and settles a platter of frozen pizza and a new cup of water on the bedside table. The pizza tastes like raw chicken when the American bites on it. Silence settles heavily upon the two but Napoleon refuses to make any sound. The blond man gets up from the ottoman and walks over to the display cabinets, taking out a vinyl record and reading the album cover. Napoleon lets his eyes follow the Russian's footsteps mindlessly.

He's soon broken out of his trance when soft jazz music fills every corner of the room, the mellow tune vibrating in his aching bones and muscles. Glancing up, he feels enlightened when he sees Gaby grinning widely while she took her coat and sunglasses off. He gets up despite the creaking protest in his joints and back. 

"Feeling better already?" She laughs when he staggers over to her. They grab hands and Gaby leads the man into a small series of swaying steps. The smooth beat of the song echoed and a toothy smile illuminates on Napoleon's face, his canines seeming too friendly for their sharpness. Gaby laughs louder and so does Napoleon as the pair slides from the bedroom to the hallways and to the living room with their footsteps coordinating perfectly on the different floors. Dance lessons for going undercover at formal parties really payed off much to their satisfaction. They continued their footsteps, the anxiety and gloom now replaced by laughter and humorous giggles (most were from Gaby, Napoleon convinces his thoughts).

Whenever Gaby let her guard down like this, he liked it. He liked it when she laughed without a care, when she would be considerate of him, when she took them out at casual restaurants every once a month, and when she would act like a mother. He also adored how Gaby could be strict but caring in different ways, it was like she was the mother Napoleon never had. Napoleon loved Gaby. And he just knows that Gaby loved him too.

The music fades in the background and Napoleon slightly slouches to rest his forehead on the woman's shoulder, letting out a content sigh as she smoothed her hands over his ruffled hair, her eyes crinkling in amusement. They stayed like that for a moment but decided it was best if they rested their aching limbs on the sofa. Pillows filled one side of the sofa while the two of them sat on the other. They talked and talked about random topics, not noticing how a figure made its way through the hallway and out the front door. They were too busy trying to catch their breaths after one of them made a snarky remark about their previous mission back in Taiwan.

Illya got off the lift and exited the building, headed for his office. He'll apologise tomorrow, when Solo's better.


	4. he's gone missing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Napoleon went _vamoosh_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note; I am not familiar with Seattle or America so I apologise if I get anything wrong. 
> 
> Second note; I have no damned idea where their headquarters are located so let's just assume it's in New York.

He ended up not apologising to Napoleon the next day. Or the day after. Or the following week after. In fact, he never apologised because the American was nowhere to be found within the quarters of UNCLE and Teller didn't seem to share the same concern that Illya was giving off. It was either the girl was really good at pretending not to worry or it was that she knew about their partner's whereabouts, which would be quite unfair with also a fair point for Illya. The man _did_ hurt (maybe provoke, but who knows, Illya's just dense and stupid when it comes to emotions) the usually-serene-and-calm agent, but he was also their partner and therefore should be informed about the others' statuses.

_Or perhaps not_ , Illya thought as Gaby strode out the door that Waverly was holding open for her. 

[...]

"Miss Teller." The man with white hairs greeted as he sat down behind his desk.

"Mr. Waverly." Gaby returned the greeting, sitting down as well. 

Once they were settled, Waverly bent down and snatches a white folder from one of the drawers. He puts the material onto the desk with his palm outstretched flat on it. A moment of silence falls upon them before the agent clears her throat, gesturing her fingers towards the folder for consent. At first Waverly had been hesitant about breaking the news to the dutiful agent, but at the same time he was confident Gaby would take this situation professionally like an ace. So he nods and leans back on his office chair to allow the girl to open the folder's flap. Her eyes immediately dims as soon as she reads the letter of requested three weeks leave written and signed by Napoleon himself. 

Anger and grief seeped into her small hands, the piece of papers creasing under her nails. She lets out a shaky sigh and her elbows rest against the sides of the chair she's sat in; her frustration was painfully evident in her body language. 

"Where did he go?" Gaby's whisper did nothing to hide the enraged snarl in her voice.

_She's become a prowling hunter, almost just like how I expected_ , Waverly smiles gently to himself and stares at his wrinkly hands whilst he thought on how he should answer in a way that wouldn't send the bird into a frenzied state. So he started smoothly with a voice he would use on a child. It seemed to work a bit, in his opinion.

"That, I do not know. Which is why I've brought you here." He almost laughs at the quizzical look the girl gives him without delay.

"To track him down?"

"Yes."

"Get me my pistol ready then."

"No, Miss Teller. This is a non-engagement mission, an observer's mission that requires _zero_ interaction with the target."

Gaby pushes herself out of her chair and walked towards the window walls, Waverly following suite unhurriedly. They loiter in front of the window as they stared down at the busy streets below them, cars going by like ants and people looking like tiny dots from twenty feet above. It wasn't her fault, she knew. But why does she feel half-responsible for daring to let the man out of her sight? She knew there was something wrong with him and it was quite rare of him to have a problem, yet she believed he would return to his normal state within a few days. The fact that Napoleon had left without a goodbye shouldn't have stung. 

Though it did. 

And that fact led her to think back to when the bar that he usually sat at was empty, to which she hadn't given it any thought. Now she wishes she had. Rubbing her knuckles together, she catches a glimpse of her reflection on the window. She looked lost, and she hated it. Gaby hated it whenever she was in the mental state of vulnerability. Although she could still twist a burly individual's trachea without a struggle, she still hated it whenever someone would see right through her. Because her thoughts would become even more perceptible, clear at its most to one's naked human eye.

"It's not your fault he left so suddenly,"

Gaby rips her unfocused gaze away from the city below and pins it on Waverly who held out an unsealed envelope. It didn't look like it's been opened though, judging by its pristine and pure condition. She plucks the paper out of his hand and heaves out a breath when Napoleon's unique surname becomes legible on it.

"Mr. Solo told me to give it to you exactly a week after he left. He didn't tell me anything else. Just picked up his luggage and left."

She swallows hard and clenches her jaw.

"Why so long?"

"Like I said, he told me nothing else. But I do believe that he wanted a week of peace before you would turn the entire city upside down to find him."

That made sense, at least to Gaby's sanity which was barely present. But her inner self was burning with sheer anger, voices cursing Napoleon's disappearance. Isolating himself was not going to do any good to his already-lonely mind. She looks back down at the envelope in her hands and decides to get this over with. To read whatever that bastard had kept to himself. As she opened the corner of the envelope, she frowns when only a small strip of paper falls out and onto her palm. Gaby squints to read the incredibly tiny font written on it.

She had been expecting a cheesy riddle, but instead there was a diner's name scribbled on it. Its name didn't deem the diner to have a high reputation, as the name didn't ring a bell to the girl. But she was certain it wasn't somewhere on the other side of the world.

"He's probably in the outskirts. Or maybe, in America. Of course. America." She scoffs.

The paper is then folded and shoved into her pockets, and Gaby turns to Waverly once again, determination practically wafting off of her. The old man just smiles and points to a board on the wall where a map of a barrio near the boundary that separated Mexico and Texas, a red pin holed onto a small town along the red lines. He approaches it and chuckles at the pin in amusement.

"You tracked him? If so, then why did you bother calling me in?"

"Yes we tracked him. But I know the man wouldn't just settle somewhere near Mexico."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning he most likely wanted us to believe that he temporarily resided there. But in fact, he's actually on the other side of where the tracker stopped and disappeared. The tracker went live again in Nevada then it stopped again."

"Smart bastard."

Waverly grins at the remark before landing an index finger a few inches from where a second pin stayed at. His finger slides over to Seattle, Gaby gasping in realisation. Seattle was the city above the point where Los Angeles and Minnesota diagonally met. The two locations were Napoleon's previous addresses in America. Although the two states were of bad memories, it obviously didn't stop him from looking for a way that would indirectly remind him of his old precious homes.

"It's not clear if Seattle is where he is really hiding at. So I need you and Agent Kuryakin-"

The mention of the agent's partner ignites a dynamite within her and she glares at her supervisor to protest against the order. Bring with her the man who caused this all? _Eat my damn teeth but I wont let the menace tag along_ , Gaby deadpans.

"No. I am _not_ bringing him with me."

"Miss Teller, you are mainly the gateway to escapes in missions. The only time you've been allowed on the field was when Solo had fractured a leg-"

"And Solo isn't here, now is he?"

Gaby didn't wait for Waverly to respond and walks out the office, footsteps clacking furiously beneath her. When Illya suddenly catches up to her side she glares at the Russian and starts down the hallway that led to the wing that connected the main building to the female dorms, not wanting any company-- especially from the coward himself-- at the very moment. 

Trudging through the bland halls, she angrily shoves the door to her room open and starts tearing her room apart in what seemed to be a hasty and poor attempt of packing for her newly assigned _observer and zero interaction_ mission that was to be commenced tomorrow first thing in the morning. A couple of shirts and slacks took up quarter of the space in her suitcase while dresses and blouses seemed to accommodate half of it. The mechanic then pulls out a shoulder bag which she fills with toiletries, smaller clothing articles, a spare pair of fancy sunglasses, and some basic make-up (if she was going to go undercover then the least she could do is contribute to her alias by using all those coloured powders and whatnot) along with spare batteries for her earpiece which she put in a pouch along with some barrettes.

_Screw 'mainly being the driver', they can hurl their asses at me for all I care_ , Gaby sneers inwardly as she inserts a pocketknife into the folds of her packed underwear (a woman's got to use a non-suspicious repellent, no?). 

Someone bangs on the door loudly and the Ukrainian cursing is more than enough to let the irritated girl know that it's Illya who's at her doorstep.

"Go away Kuryakin!" She calls venomously from her bedroom. 

"Unlock the door or I will break it!" A heavily accented voice yells back at her. 

Gaby spends the next thirty minutes listening to Illya's strings of profanities without a care in the world as she proceeded to plant trackers into her luggage, doing so while flippantly mimicking his Russian accent in a voice that would resemble a whiny child; which he is. By the time everything (except her weaponry) was ready and packed, Illya's livid ranting had already subsided to small mumbling. She looked through the peephole of her door and saw no one in view, so she slowly unlocked the door and poked her head out into the hallway, brows furrowing in displeasure when she saw Illya sitting and leaning against the wall in front of her door. His head was ducked and his hands were fiddling with his necktie, face obscured by his arms. 

Though Gaby could still hear him muttering about a stupid cowboy. She sighed loudly.

The blonde shoots up from the floor and attempts to glower at his fellow agent but fails miserably as his hat falls from his head and smacks into his nose. Gaby sniggers and allows to let go of her resentment. Stepping aside to make room for the giant to walk in, she clicks the stove on and lets Illya sit at the counter, moving the kettle over the fire. 

The duo chat in the kitchen over the woodsy and mellow aroma of purple tea.

[...]

Agents Teller and Kuryakin leave New York before they even give the sun a chance to drip its light through the skyscrapers. Early morning breeze is colder than usual and it takes Gaby more than two layers of coats to keep the chilly wind from nipping at her skin. Illya stays indifferent to the icy weather though. Suppose the man's immune to ungodly temperatures then, seeing that he's simply wearing a caramel turtle-neck under an equally-caramel jacket. 

They get into a cab and ride off to the airport where they spend two hours while waiting for their flight which was delayed for some reason.

Airport coffee isn't ideal for people with high standards like Gaby, but it does the job to keep her from nodding off beside her fellow agent who is currently towering over her in his chair that looks a bit too small for him. It's about eight thirty when the girl on the speakers finally announce their plane's arrival. Gaby barely holds back the need to snort as a loud cracking of stiff bones resonated throughout Illya's back. A few other waiting passengers look in question.

"Enjoy the flight." The cabin crew sang in unison as soon as the purser finished giving safety precautions and instructions.

An hour into the flight and Gaby stirred from her sleep. As she tried to subtly stretch her curled limbs, she looks around and immediately locks eyes with Illya who is four seats away from her. Fifteen minutes later, they find themselves locked in the bathroom; the chop shop girl sat on the closed toilet seat and the mad peril leaned against the door hatch, his eyes trained on the map and strip of paper held in Gaby's hands. 

"That," He gestures his chin at the paper, "from Cowboy?"

Gaby just nods and opens another smaller map that consisted all of Seattle that had another piece of paper stapled to it. She points to the stapled paper.

"There are exactly nine different diners with the name 'Solo' in Seattle. Three of them are in the heart of the city which I've crossed out because Napoleon wouldn't dare go to busy places. Two of them are in the north, three are near the newly opened Space Needle, and the last one is in Alki but that is going off the list because the diner went bankrupt a couple of months ago." She looks up at Illya to see if he was listening, and he was.

"We only have five places to go to." Illya hums in acknowledgement. He then reaches out to point at a blue dot inked by the Space Needle.

"At seven tonight, we go to Space Needle." It's Gaby's turn to hum.

More squeaky sounds of marker scribbling on paper fills in the empty spaces of the fairly small bathroom, muffled whirring and voices passing outside. The ticking of Illya's watch could be heard in the comfortable silence and so he covers it with his large palm.

"I have no idea why he would choose to be in such a busy city if all he wanted was peace and quiet. He could have gone to Hawaii, or maybe Italy. But no, he chose Seattle."

"Teller."

"I never thought he'd be much of a dramatic coward to just suddenly vanish into thin air as if no one would worry about him."

"Excuse me-"

"That stupid brain of his must have been fried by Rudi's chair-"

"Gaby Teller." The woman tenses up and spares the Russian a glance before sighing loudly. Setting the materials down onto the sink, she drops her head onto her hands and rubs gently as not to ruin her make-up, realising what she had just said.

"I'm sorry. I should have kept my thoughts to myself." 

Another heap of silence engulfs them as Gaby tried to recollect herself and find the right words to say without hitting rock bottom. Someone's hand gently claps her petite shoulder. She tilts herself to look up and for the first time, saw sympathy in those cold ice eyes that never failed to make someone get all tingly with all the menace pooling out. The mechanic chokes back a shuddering breath and straightens herself again.

"Napoleon." Illya breaks the stretching tranquil moment. It's the first time she's ever heard the mad man say the agent's first name. It's honestly ridiculous to listen to since his accent just makes the foreign name sound even more foreign and maybe even a bit extra-terrestrial. Nevertheless, the simple mention of the American brings a smile to her chapped lips.

"What about him?"

"He is a coward." Gaby throws her head back and lets out a small laugh at that statement. 

"But he is a good man."

"Wow, never knew you had some admiration in you." She laughs harder and almost falls off the toilet in a fit of giggles, Illya sputtering in defiance.

"I do not have such, I am merely saying the truth."

"Of course, of course. Whatever you say, Kuryakin."

They continue playfully bickering; Gaby on the verge of dying from laughter, and Illya desperately trying to keep the girl on the toilet seat with a very small silly grin on his face. Then abrupt and obnoxious pounding echoes on the door, sending vibrations throughout the room. A child's voice rang out with panic.

"I really need to use the loo, Miss whoever's-in-there!" 

The duo hurriedly scurries out and a little girl with dark strawberry blonde hair rushes past them and into the bathroom shouting a "Pardon me!" as she carefully manhandled them out to lock the door. 

"April! I told you to wait for me!" A woman in her late thirties, supposedly the girl's mother, maneuvers through the seats and towards the back of the cabin.

Looking at each other with slight surprise, they share one more laugh (it's mostly Gaby doing all the laughing) as they parted ways to go back to their seats to spend the remaining four hours of their flight by either sleeping or by thinking about how Napoleon will react when they find him.

Will he laugh in amusement and come back to them? Or will he simply smile and disappear again? One can never be too sure of the sly Cowboy's thoughts.


End file.
